


Work In Progress

by midoritakamine



Category: Bleach
Genre: M/M, Renji is a fashion disaster and I love him, Sewing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 14:43:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10901484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midoritakamine/pseuds/midoritakamine
Summary: He can play his hand and show the unfinished project, but he cannot give away who it was meant for. Not to anybody, and especially not to it’s actual recipient.





	Work In Progress

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't finished Bleach yet (I just finished Fake Karakura Town arc and I'm going back to watch the Zanpakuto filler), so I have. Absolutely no idea what I'm doing.  
> Listen I am weak to all hell for these two. Hueco Mundo set me on fire and their fight with Szayel poured gasoline on the flames. I'm not confident in my characterization but I need to fuel my own love for these two somehow.
> 
> BTW thank you to my good friend Art who gave me the prompt to work with.

Whenever the project is for somebody he particularly enjoys the company of, Uryu finds sewing to be relaxing, stress-relieving. A getaway from the hustle that his inevitable involvement in Kurosaki’s life brings him. No Shinigami, no Hollows, no Shinigami, no life or death situations, no  _ goddamn Shinigami _ -

He inhales sharply through his teeth, squinting at the pad of his finger. He turns a scowl on his needle, silently accusing it of injuring him like it had its own sentience. No matter, he figures, as he’s been hurt much worse than this in the past. A trip down painful memory lane reminds him of the unfortunate  _ treatment _ (if one could let go of their humanity long enough to call it such) Kurotsuchi Mayuri subjected him to during his deployment to Hueco Mundo.

Deployment? His lips twist as he realigns the needle and begins working again. Perhaps that’s a bit of a stretch; he isn’t officially affiliated with Soul Society, so any actions he takes that coincide with theirs is pure coincidence. Besides, his goal from the start of Hueco Mundo was different than Soul Society’s (or so he likes to believe. Rescuing Inoue-san was likely a background focus for the Shinigami that joined the fight, while her safety was his priority).

Briefly, the thought of Inoue-san makes him half-smile. Back to somebody he actually enjoys speaking with. His fingers work much more nimbly with her in mind. This isn’t a project for her, he finished all of her requests the other day, but perhaps if he convinces himself he’s making this for somebody as thoughtful and kind as her, he’ll be able to put forth a better effort. Then again, what’s a better motivator than fixing up a certain little fashion disaster?

Immediately he regrets his line of thought because the needle stabs the pad of his middle finger. With a hiss he pulls it back and sends the fabric in his lap a glare. He can’t even do something  _ nice _ for such an irritable person lest he get hurt in the process. If he had less control of his thoughts, he would have taken that idea and ran with it; when doesn’t he get hurt doing things for the sake of others’?

Now isn’t the time for this. The lot of people he wants to venture so far as to call his friends will be back in twenty minutes and he wants this piece done by the time  _ that one _ appears as well. He’s not sure if  _ that one _ will even be present, but through word of Kurosaki’s mouth those that will be joining them today aren’t just the usual suspects. He recalls he was about to protest until Inoue-san expressed some sort of excitement to see Kuchiki-san again, so he swallowed his pride and didn’t protest to seeing the Shinigami again.

Sighing, he sets the fabric and needle down on the desk and pinches the bridge of his nose. He needs to get ahold of himself. He isn’t some blushing schoolgirl about to gift her crush a loving bento box. He  _ is _ some irritated teenager wondering what possessed him to give something to a Shinigami of all the damn things in the world, though. He would just give it up and stuff it in his desk to be forgotten about, but his brain nips at him that it’s unsightly of somebody like him to give up on such a simple task. The only thing more unsightly than that would be-  
  
“Ishida!”

His eyes fly up to the opening doors, meeting Kurosaki’s. He looks almost bored as Inoue-san and Kuchiki-san follow him into the room. Behind them there are three more figures, and suddenly a weight in his gut he didn’t realize he had drops. Almost frantically, he stuffs the unfinished garment into his desk and scowls at the intrusion.

“Would it hurt you to knock, Kurosaki?”

“This is a public classroom, not a bathroom,” he says as he leans back against the teacher’s desk at the front of the room. He observes Uryu for a second before looking down at the top of his desk. “What was that?”

“Nothing that concerns you, just something-” He bites his lip. What can he say to deflect the question? Inoue-san and Kuchiki-san are here, so he can’t lie and say they asked him to make it. “Well, uh, Kon asked me to make him something.”

Kurosaki raises a brow. “Did he? And you agreed? That’s a surprise. When did you two speak?”

Uryu is saved from answering by a ruckus in the hallway. They all turn their attention to the doorway where not a second later Madarame-san and Ayasegawa-san duck in and slam the door shut behind them as best they can. Both of them sport shiteating grins and a sense of annoyance takes over Uryu’s face and he looks down at the desk. Silently, he prays that the third Shinigami that the first two are keeping out isn’t who he thinks it is.

That hope is immediately dashed when, “Do you guys really think playin' tricks on a Lieutenant is a good idea?!” rings through the thin door. Choked, completely insincere apologies come from Ayasegawa-san’s lips while Madarame-san continues chortling as he holds the door shut. “I'm gonna break this down if ya don't open!”

“Don’t!” Kurosaki winces at the threat. “Unless you’re gonna fix it immediately, don’t destroy my school. We aren’t even alone; there are students still here!” His warning comes too late because not a second after he pleads, the door comes away from the wall in a way it most certainly shouldn’t, sending Ayasegawa-san to the floor and Madarame-san into a nearby desk.

Snickering, Madarame-san says, “Scatter, Yumichika! He can’t get us both!” Without checking to see if he’s heard, he ducks under a seething arm and scrambles down the hallway. His lack of checking makes no difference because immediately after, Ayasegawa-san ducks under a matching arm and makes haste in the opposite direction.

“Oh, those two- they’re going to destroy the school.” Kurosaki heaves a sigh and also ducks under the arm of the Shinigami in the destroyed doorway. “Please, just- stay here. Rukia,” she perks up from her conversation with Inoue-san when her name is mentioned, “can you help me catch those two?”

Kuchiki-san exchanges a glance with Inoue-san and smiles. “Alright, we’ll go find one of them. Who do you want?”

“Let me get Ikkaku,” grumbles Kurosaki as he rubs the back of his neck. “You guys go get Yumichika.”

As quickly as they came, the brigade of guests leaves the classroom. Uryu’s nerves are now keenly aware that the only person left in the room is the one he was silently hoping would not make his arrival.

“Those two are damn fools.” He glances up from his desk and forces himself to settle his eyes on the source of the voice, no matter how much it makes him feel like the fabric in his desk is burning a hole through the base.

Before the crowd left, Uryu had thought being alone with him would be the best way to approach this. No prying eyes, or anybody to make fun of him for something that clearly isn’t even that much of a gesture anyway so  _ why are you smirking like that, you idiots?! This isn’t anything special! _ The thought of anybody around to witness him do this was terrifying, but now he wishes to whatever deities may or may not exist across the globe that the crowd was still here. At least then he could try and play this as a prank to embarrass him if it went south.

To make matters outside of the dryness of his throat and bouncing of his leg worse, he didn’t even finish the stupid thing. He should have pulled an all nighter and forced himself to get it done. Now he’ll have to wait until he comes back again, and though that likely won’t be very far in the future given how often Kurosaki ends up involved in their charades, and how often those charades involve Uryu himself-

“Oi, Ishida, are you gonna give me the silent treatment or somethin’?”

Immediately his bouncing leg comes to a halt. In its place a cold sweat threatens his brow as he looks up. He can all but feel the wretched fabric in his desk looking at him, laughing at him for not finishing on time. When did he get all of this crushing anxiety? Why does it always come up with  _ him _ ?

Crossing his arms, Uryu leans back in his chair, kicking it up on two legs (seriously, why is he acting so  _ weird _ when it comes to this guy?!). It takes an effort, but he makes his face as neutral as possible when he replies. “I’m not ignoring you, Abarai. I simply don’t have anything to say to you.” That’s a lie. He suddenly, inexplicably, has so many things he needs to tell Abarai with fervor. None of them make sense, and it doesn’t make sense to him why he wants to tell him these things, so he doesn’t say them. Perhaps if he ignores them long enough, they’ll go away as well. Why the hell would he need to tell Abarai any of this?

Uryu swears he hears the fabric in his desk cough.

“You aren’t that good of a liar, y’know that?”

He purses his lips. “What makes you say I’m lying?”

“You always get kinda…” Abarai pauses and rolls his eyes towards the ceiling in thought. Thought? Uryu raises a brow; how far he’s come since Hueco Mundo. Next thing he knows, Abarai will be spewing philosophy. Instead, he says, “You always look on edge when you lie. You  _ also _ go and do stuff like leanin’ back in your chair and scoffin’.”

Is he really that easy to read? Uryu sets his chair back down on four legs and rests his elbows on the desk, chin propped in one hand. “Alright, perhaps I’m not being honest. What’s it matter to you?”

“You only start gettin’ like this when I’m in the room,” he rolls his eyes, “so yeah, maybe it’s  _ somethin _ ’ to me.” He points at the desk, and Uryu bites his tongue. “What’re ya hidin’ in there?”

“Nothing!” The answer is too quick and he knows it. He’d be suspicious of anybody that answered as quickly as he did. He clears his throat before reaffirming eye contact. “Nothing. Just my supplies. Needles, thread, things you wouldn’t know how to work.” A brash assumption sure, but a logical one. A hardened Shinigami like him more than likely never sat down and carefully sewed together intricate designs like the ones he does. “Why the interest?”

“I’ve seen people try to protect and hide stuff before, and you’re actin’ like you’ve got somethin’ special inside your desk. Probably whatever’s got you so wound up right now.”

There’s no reason for him to show his hand. There’s absolutely no reason and yet Uryu finds himself lifting the top of his desk up and pulling out the unfinished scrap of fabric. His nerves burn when he realizes Abarai steps closer to look at it, but he continues to force his face to remain neutral. He can play his hand and show the unfinished project, but he cannot give away who it was meant for. Not to anybody, and especially not to it’s actual recipient.

In a rare act of civilization (Okay, perhaps that’s a bit rude in his mind’s monologue, but he got interrupted in the middle of this project so niceties be damned), Abarai gestures to the fabric as if asking permission to examine it. Against his better judgement, Uryu closes his eyes and shrugs. A foolproof plan; now he can’t see the mockery on Abarai’s face as he laughs at it. It does nothing, however, for the anxious butterflies brushing razored wings along the insides of his stomach. The last time he felt such a discomfort in there, he was staring down a delighted Espada taking his time crushing all of his organs. An unpleasant memory for sure, however all the discomfort surrounding it mellows when he remembers he wasn’t alone through that suffering.

He almost gags at his own thoughts. Could he try any harder to sound so stereotypically infatuated?

Wait, infatuated? No. No, no, no, wrong word. Worst word. The most incorrect word in the world, even surpassing haphazard. There could be no worse of a word t-

“Looks nice.” Uryu’s eyes snap open and he looks up. He’s aware he doesn’t at all look neutral anymore, but he can’t correct himself. “Whoever this is intended for’ll probably love it. Feels good too.” He can’t help but gape when Abarai sets it back down on the desk, scooting himself up to sit on the surface of the neighboring one.

Nice. He said it looks nice, and that it feels good. Well, that certainly melts away some of the anxiety in his chest. He clings on to some of it though; now is not the time to get drunk of such minor compliments and run with them. That’s a good way to either embarrass or hurt himself. Likely both.

“Thank you, Abarai…” There’s no easy way to say it, so he simply says it. Offering a Shinigami thanks makes his stomach churn uncomfortably, but it’s overpowered by a warm throbbing in his veins. He’s not sure he likes that anymore than he does the discomfort, but at least the warmth makes him feel lighter.

His eyes lid a fraction and dares let a small smile take over. He doesn’t need meaningless praise. It’s more irritating than reassuring to get, but the logic in that lifelong thought process seems to flick itself off in this case. Hearing such simple words makes a sense of urgency creep through his body. He has to finish this soon, if just to see how Abarai reacts to it.

Uryu is more than content to sit in silence now, and the same seems true of Abarai. So they do. Eventually he reaches into his desk and begins working on the project right then and there; perhaps he could surprise Abarai by finishing and presenting it immediately. He did remark that he liked the feeling of it…

A few minutes of work pass by them. A few final stitches away from completion, Kurosaki appears in the doorway considerably rustled. In his hand is a horrendous-looking scarf. Uryu flinches as he looks it over; a gaudy color sits as the base while a much too bright, clashing pattern weaves a disgusting trail along horribly contrived seams. It takes all his strength to not stand up and march across the room to snatch it away and get rid of it. What kind of fool would wear such a-

“Oh, did ya get my scarf back finally?” His jaw drops open comically when Abarai slides off the desk and approaches Kurosaki. He half-grins and takes the horrid thing, wrapping it around his shoulders. He glances back at Uryu and shrugs. “Too bad this ol’ thing outshines your project. Maybe you should make whoever somethin’ like mine.”

As much as he wants to protest against making something so unsightly, he doesn’t. For some reason, Uryu doesn’t find enough heart in his chest to mock what a disgrace to fashion Abarai is, nor rip the dreaded thing from his body and toss it into a firepit. He glances down at the fabric in his hands simply to get his eyes to stop hurting from Abarai’s scarf, and a small smile spreads across his face. His thumb runs over the fabric and in his mind’s eye he replaces the one Abarai wears with the one in his hands.

Well, perhaps he can mock Abarai as soon as he has something to mock him with.


End file.
